


I Would Follow You Anywhere

by imagine43



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Acceptance, Body Horror, Brief Mention of Vomit, Din feeding Migs, Din rescues him and nurses him back to health, Enemies to Friends, Eventual First kiss, Eventual Romance, Feelings Realization, Graphic Depiction of gore, M/M, Migs is experimented on by the empire, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Protective Din Djarin, Touch-Starved Din Djarin, Wounds, they take care of each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 14:53:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29352264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imagine43/pseuds/imagine43
Summary: Migs Mayfeld was a traitor to the empire. He had led an enemy into the refinery on Morak, lied to a commanding officer, and killed dozens of imperial troopers. So, it was no surprise that when they found out that he was still alive, they took action, capturing him and submitting him to extreme torture as punishment for his crimes. When the Mandalorian breaks him out, he helps him recover both mentally and physically. But really, who is helping who?
Relationships: Din Djarin/Migs Mayfeld
Comments: 14
Kudos: 58





	I Would Follow You Anywhere

**Author's Note:**

> I actually finished a story for these two that was more than 1,000 words! I have a few more ideas, but my writing is terrible, and I am incredibly unmotivated, so who knows if I will ever actually write any of them. I was going to break this work up into chapters, but I couldn't be bothered. So, I'm sorry, but you guys are stuck with this long mess.
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy this dark, sad, happy, mushy disaster of a fic :D 
> 
> let me know what you think! Any feedback is appreciated! <3

When the empire showed up in his home, Migs wasn’t surprised. After the shit he pulled at that imperial refinery on Morak, it was only a matter of time before they tracked him down and killed him. The empire had eyes everywhere, and it only took a little less than a year for some of those eyes to train onto his location.

It was his fault, really. He knew he shouldn’t have stayed on one planet for this long—it was just asking to get caught. He just couldn’t find it in himself to leave. The planet was lovely, the people were friendly, and he was tired of running from planet to planet. He had a stable job as the local mechanic, and he was damn good at it. Plus, nobody knew him as an ex-imperial—here, he was just a local, normal guy.

Why would he want to leave?

Now, with about twenty blasters aimed in his direction, he was starting to remember why he _might’ve_ wanted to leave a while back.

He knew that he couldn’t fight his way out of this one. Storm troopers were notoriously bad shots, but not even they could miss his stationary body from this range. Besides, he didn’t have a weapon to fight back with anyways. It was either die here, looking like an idiot, or wait a while and at least try to formulate a plan along the way.

Honestly, it was a toss-up.

He had seen first-hand what it was like to be tortured by the empire. Mostly because he had been doing some of the torturing back in the day. If he died now, it might not be the worst way to go.

However, he wasn’t a coward. He would face what he had done. He deserved the death that was inevitably coming, he knew that. Even if there was someone out there that knew where he was, or even that he was still alive, they wouldn’t come for him. He was on his own.

At least now he could pay for his mistakes. Atone for his wrongdoings.

He consigned himself to his doom and raised his hands over his head, allowing the troopers to take him away. As he was shoved through the town, he made eye contact with some of his new friends. The hurt and confusion on their faces was enough to make him think that maybe he was a human worth caring about—that maybe he had done something right in these, his last days. All he could do was grimly smile back, hoping that these people would be ok. Hoping that he didn’t paint a target on the whole town just by associating with them.

After getting seated on the transport ship, he hung his head low, almost as if in a silent prayer. What was he praying for? He didn’t know. Maybe repentance, maybe forgiveness, maybe a shot at redemption. Whatever the case, he finally felt at peace with his impending doom.

However, there was still that itch at the back of his mind, willing him to be selfish.

If only someone was there that knew him— _really_ knew him, as Migs Mayfeld, the loudmouthed, confident ex-imperial shooter. There were only two, possibly four (if Fennec and Boba even cared enough to remember who he was) people that knew he was still alive, and they were all worlds away.

No, they wouldn’t come. Not with everything that they were facing in their own lives. He hadn’t heard anything about them for a long time. Last he knew, they were on their way to take down Moff Gideon to get the little green guy back.

Yea, they had quite a bit going on. A little too busy to be coming for a low-down, dirty scumbag like himself.

However, when he closed his eyes, he couldn’t help but think about how nice it would be to see those brown eyes one last time.

\-----(Graphic gore/violence warnings in this next section. You’ve been warned)----------

Migs could barely hold his eyes open. He felt like he hadn’t been able to for a while now. It had been at least a month since the Empire had taken him from his home, but in all honesty, he didn’t really know how long it had actually been. That was mostly due to being locked in a room for long periods of time with no light, nor any other kind of indication that a day had passed.

The aggressive torture and trauma didn’t help at all either.

Apparently, the empire wasn’t all too happy about his insubordination and betrayal back when he helped the Mandalorian on Morak. So, like any other shady, suppressive, and evil organization would do with anyone they found committing treason, they starved, tortured, and experimented on him as punishment.

It started out brutal beatings, but as time went on, the empire got over their fury and started thinking logically. With such a high demand for live subjects, why would they just kill a ‘willing’ participant like himself?

Logically, people, who wouldn’t make the same call?

Migs could barely joke around, even in his own head anymore. He was slowly slipping away, all signs of who he once was deteriorating, just as his body was. They had starved him for long periods of time, until he almost couldn’t move anymore. Then, they started giving him nutrient infusions through a tube, just to keep his miserable existence prolonged for a little while longer.

The experimentation came next, which is when Migs found out just how much of a walk in the park his first few weeks of being held by the empire was. They had decided that an asset such as Migs Mayfeld, still dead according to any _official_ new republic record, would do much better for the empire as a killing machine.

And he meant that literally.

They first ripped his eye out, and replaced it with a prosthetic—one that would improve his already outstanding sharpshooting abilities twofold. The eye was rejected by his body at first, which caused mild sepsis throughout his whole body. He had blood dribble from his tear duct every so often, simply because of the stress that his eye socket was being put under. After that, it only ever happened when he cried, apparently the duct had become like a wound that would reopen and bleed any time tears were spilt. It took weeks, possibly even months, but his eye was finally a part of him, and the swelling throughout his body, along with the tremors and nausea, finally came to an end.

He knew, theoretically, that things could technically get worse, but he didn’t really know how at that point. He had never suffered such pain in his life, and hoped he would die before he had to face it again.

Unfortunately, the empire was not that considerate.

The next thing to go was his left forearm. Not the whole arm, but most of the muscle tissue, bone, ligaments, and flesh. They integrated a gun mechanism into his wrist, and soon enough, his arm was a fully functioning mess of machinery and human organic material. When they finished the horrible, even longer process of integrating the prosthetic into his arm, they managed to make the prosthetic in his eye control it.

Because the prosthetic in his eye was integrated into his brain, he was able to fully control both with his thoughts alone.

It was terrifying, and Migs hated himself all the more for it.

He thought that the empire was going to kill him, to make him _pay_ for what he did throughout his life, but _this_ —becoming a _literal_ weapon in their hands—was beyond what even he could handle. He was a shell of a man, unable to even muster a single thought of resistance.

He just hoped that his next operation wouldn’t be so successful. That maybe this time, the blood loss, or the infection, or his body’s rejection, would finally be the resolute nail in his sullied, patchwork coffin.

He heard his experimenters talking about replacing his lungs and other organs a few days back, perhaps to improve efficiency, he didn’t really know. All he did know was that with a procedure as invasive and dangerous as that, he might _actually_ not wake up next time.

He laid on the table, tubes jutting from his arm, throat, and various parts of his abdomen, accepting that this might be the last time he would ever be coherent enough to think for himself again. His mind wandered, drifting to and from different times in his life. Pondering the happiest, the saddest, the most impactful moments.

Finally, his thoughts landed on brown eyes.

Why did his brain end up there? He didn’t really know. he would’ve assumed that his final thoughts would have something to do with Burnin Konn, or his regrets, but instead, his mind was permeated with those piercing, scared, beautiful brown eyes.

Maybe it was because it was one of the craziest situations he had been in for a long time—infiltrating an enemy base, lying to someone he once called his commander, _shooting_ said commander, and being pronounced dead. Or maybe it was seeing the man so lost, helpless, and scared. The same man who had faced down every challenge he encountered, including single-handedly taking out an entire task force that had betrayed him and locked him in prison. He remembered the terror that filled his eyes when being called out by Valin Hess, a look that he _never_ would have expected from the cool, confident, and badass Mandalorian that had taken him down so easily before.

There were very few things that he had witnessed throughout his life that had haunted him like that day had. He felt like he had borne witness to one of the most intimate, vulnerable moments in the Mandolorian’s life, and he couldn’t shake it, no matter how hard he tried.

Yea, maybe that’s why those brown eyes filled his head during his final hours. 

He wondered how the Mando was doing anyways. Had he ever thought of him after that day on Morak? Did he ever wonder what _he_ was up to?

No, probably not. He had many, _many_ more important people to think about, and more important things to do. The only time Mando would _ever_ come looking for him was if he got a bounty puck with Migs’ face on it.

He felt a sharp pinch, and the experiment began. He had hoped that there would be some kind of anesthetic administered before they started slicing, but he knew better.

Oh well, the pain served him right. For all the people he had killed, on both sides, he knew that he deserved worse.

Before he could think any more depressing thoughts, he heard the distinct sound of blaster rounds firing in the distance. He would’ve thought he was hallucinating, were it not for the fact that the ‘doctors’ around him looked up, apparently hearing the sound as well.

One of them stepped away to look out the door, and when he did, a blaster was fired, this time much, much closer. The doctor’s body slumped to the floor, and the others in the room ran to the back corner, holding their hands up in surrender. It did them no good, and they were blasted as well, which left Migs as the sole survivor in the room. Well, other than the shooter, that is.

When Migs looked at the doorway, he knew he had lost it. His hallucinations had been getting worse and worse, and now, here he was, hallucinating that shiny beskar that had been haunting his dreams ever since that day on the prison ship. As the blurry image of the Mandalorian got closer, Migs could swear that this one was different though—almost too real. Then, when he heard his voice, he knew for sure.

This was real.

“Migs, dank farrik Migs, stay with me!” he heard the figure say, rushing over to him and pulling tubes out of his body. As he pulled the tube from his throat, Migs couldn’t help but gag and dry heave, even though there was nothing for him to throw up. As soon as the tube was out, he tried to speak

“…ere… y-you’re… here…” he tried so hard, but it’s all he could manage to say before he was coughing and choking on nothing.

Mando silenced him, “Yes, I'm here. Now let’s get out of here before the whole base is on us.” He lifted Migs and draped an arm around his shoulders, but then quickly deciding that it wouldn’t do, judging by how Migs nearly collapsed from just being upright. There was no way he could hold his own weight right now. He considered his options, thinking that maybe he could drape him over his back. When Migs couldn’t even tighten his grip, Mando knew that he couldn’t hold on, so that wouldn’t work either. Not to mention his jetpack would be severely uncomfortable for the man with open wounds to rest against.

Finally, he decided to just hold the other man bridal style. This way, he could protect him with the beskar plates on his arms, and also make sure that he didn’t take a shot from behind. When he picked him up, Mando was shocked to find just how light the other was. He remembered him being a lot bulkier the last time he saw him. Now, it was like he was picking up a child.

He had his blaster in his hand, under Migs’ legs, as they left the room. They only encountered a few troopers at a time, which Mando made short work of. They fought their way through a dozen or so troopers before they made it to Mando’s ship, which was landed in the shuttle bay.

Migs didn’t want to think about how this man always seemed to get away with the most incredible stunts. That, or how dumb the empire was for _letting_ him get away with so many things like this.

Even though he wanted to stay in this dream forever, where Mando was holding him so tight while fighting off an imperial base, Migs could no longer stay awake, no matter how many times the other would yell something like ‘ _stay with me Migs!’_ or ‘ _don’t you die on me, we’re almost there!’_. He wanted to, he really did, but he just couldn’t.

The last thing he saw was the shiny helmet of the Mandalorian as his vision slowly turned to black.

+-------:(=<=>=):------+

When Migs woke up, he felt better than he had in a long time. It wasn’t saying much, considering how terrible he’s felt the past who-knows-how-long. When his eyes fluttered open, it took him a minute before he recognized what he was looking at as the inside of a foreign ship—not the grey walls he had been used to waking up to.

He should’ve panicked, but he didn’t. Even if he did have an ounce of self-preservation left, he wouldn’t have the energy to do anything about it anyways. He slowly tried to sit up, but found that his movements were restricted by thick bandaging around his abdomen, and cuffs around his wrists.

He had been used to the cuffs, since he tried to take out a few of his ‘doctors’ back when he was newly captured, but the bandaging? Where the hell was he? Most of the time, the doctors would just slap some gauze, if that, onto whatever incision they had made. Often, it would only be an antibacterial salve that they would smear into the wound, just to ensure that it wouldn’t get infected.

It worked, about 50% of the time.

There was rustling to his left, and his eyes jolted in that direction. There, he met the unyielding face of a shiny beskar helmet.

So, it wasn’t a dream after all.

“You're awake.” The Mandalorian said, arms folded over his chest. It wasn’t a question, so Migs didn’t really know where to go from there.

“Unless we’re both dead.” Migs said. He really hoped that wasn’t the case, because Mando deserved a better afterlife than being stuck with him. After realizing he was still alive, due to the pain he still felt, he looked to the other, “Why don’t you just get it over with?”

The Mandalorian tilted his head in confusion, “Get what over with?”

Migs huffed, “Just go ahead and kill me. I’d rather die by your hand than fall back into imperial hands. Just make it quick ok?”

The Mandalorian sighed, then clicked a button on his arm's control panel, releasing the cuffs from Mayfeld's wrists with a hiss. Mayfeld looked at the other with confusion as the other spoke in a neutral tone, “I’m not here to kill you. Why do you always assume I’m going to kill you every time we see each other?”

Migs sighed as well, “Because everyone wants to kill me.” He almost laughed when the other tilted his head in agreement.

Almost.

“Besides, if I remember correctly, I tried to get you locked up on a prison ship a while back.” He continued, “Some people don’t take too kindly to that sort of thing.”

“Well, if _I_ remember correctly, you also helped me save my kid, so I would say we are pretty even.” The other responded, “Anyways, why would I go through all the trouble of saving you from that imperial ship if I just wanted you dead?”

Migs shrugged, “I’ve heard of crazier things.”

The bounty hunter took a slight step toward him, and Migs couldn’t help but flinch. Immediately, the other stopped in his tracks, clearly picking up on the subtle discomfort. He stood still, “How are you feeling?”

Migs hesitated. He wouldn’t say _good_ per se, but now that he knew he wasn’t dreaming, that Mando really _did_ come for him, he was better than he’d been in a while. “I’m… how long was I out?”

“You’ve been sleeping for 5 standard cycles.”

Migs’ eyes nearly popped out of his head, “Kriff, and you didn’t throw me overboard during that time? You must be serious about not wanting to kill me. I'm told I snore, _aggressively_.”

The Mandalorian tilted his head, and Migs could swear he could hear a huff of laughter come from under his helmet.

Migs smiled internally. Apparently, he still had some of his ability left to make others laugh at least.

There was a pause before the atmosphere in the room got a little stuffier. “Mayfeld… what happened on that ship?”

It was then that he remembered how hideously disfigured he must’ve looked to the other right now—his eye was now robotic, as was his forearm. Not to mention the scar tissue that must be adorning nearly every inch of his skin.

He turned away, ashamed of what he had become. He couldn’t stand for the other to see him like this.

“I…” he started to say, but trailed off, not really sure what he was even intending to say. “Not sunshine and rainbows, I can tell you that.” He wanted to cry, but was afraid that he might scare the other with blood coming from his cybernetic eye. “Listen, Mando, I understand how it is. You probably have places to be, and I’m not wanted where you’re headed, I'm sure. So, you can just drop me off on the nearest planet. Thanks a ton, really. I would probably be dead right now if it weren’t for you, so I really appreciate it, but it’s… I’ll be fine.” he paused for a moment, “I’m… I’ll be fine, really.” He stammered, not knowing if he was trying to reassure himself or the Mandalorian at that point.

He didn’t want to know what that face looked like under the beskar. Hell, he couldn’t even face the stony façade of the beskar right now either. It was about a minute before the other said anything, and with how silent the Mandalorian was, Migs started to think that he had just snuck out of the room, prepping to land on the next planet like Migs had told him to.

However, when he turned to look, the man was standing in the same exact spot, arms now down at his sides instead of crossed at his chest. As he turned, the Mandalorian let out a gasp and ran to his side, causing Migs to curl in on himself out of panic.

“Mayfeld, I’m not going to hurt you, you’re bleeding! I just want to help!” Mando said, kneeling next to the prone ex-imperial patiently, not overstepping or touching. Just waiting.

Apparently, Migs had started crying, and there was blood running down his cheek, just like he had feared. He only curled in on himself more, “I told you, I’m fine! Just go away, I’ll be fine.”

There’s a pause, then a gentle hand on Migs’ shoulder, “Please Mayfeld, let me help you. Can you turn around and look at me?”

Migs froze at the gentle tone. Nobody had _ever_ used such a gentle tone directed at him before—not even his own parents! He couldn’t help it as he slowly turned, eyes meeting helmet once again.

“There you are. Now, I’m just going to grab my health kit and take care of that blood, ok?” Mando said, rubbing his hand soothingly along Migs’ shoulder.

Migs nodded once, so Mando leaned to the right, grabbing the health kit that he had handy next to where Migs had been sleeping. It made sense, seeing as Migs was practically wrapped from head to toe. Mando pulled out a small cloth and dabbed some sterilizing solution on it before wiping away the blood from his cheek. Once he got close to the tear duct, he hesitated.

Migs could sense that the other was uncomfortable at the prospect of causing discomfort from the solution meeting the tender area. “It’s ok, that eye’s been through worse.” He said jokingly, but when the other didn’t laugh, he felt bad about potentially making the other uncomfortable.

Hesitantly, Mando dabbed the area, causing a brief tinge of pain for Migs. He handled it like a champ, and made sure not to flinch, not wanting to make the other feel bad. When he finished, Mando took the other’s face in his hands and tilted it upward, looking for further damage or blood that he might’ve missed. When he was satisfied that the other was ok, he let him go, and Migs let out a breath that he hadn’t realized he was holding.

The Mandalorian gathered up the first aid supplies and set them to the side, resting on his knees and looking in Migs’ direction once he finished. “Does that happen a lot?”

Migs looked up, “What, the crying blood? No, not too often.” He lied, not wanting to lead on how many times he had cried since losing his eye. “It came with the new ‘upgrade’, in case you were wondering.” He tried to lighten the mood with sarcasm, but he could tell that he only piqued the other’s curiosity even more.

There was silence for a moment before the Mandalorian decided to speak, “Mayfeld… I’m sorry I let this happen to you.”

That grabbed his attention.

“What do you mean, ‘ _let_ ’ this happen to me? What, did _you_ hold the scalpel? Did _you_ take my eye? Did _you_ make my arm a mechanized weapon? I don’t kriffing think so.” He shouted, furious that the other even said something so stupid. “I don’t want your guilt _or_ your pity, so save it!” he paused for a moment, then asked, slightly more calmly now, “Why would you even say something like that?”

The other dropped his head, “I was sloppy… I should have been faster.”

Mayfeld wanted so badly to get up and slam a door somewhere, but he couldn’t barely sit up, let alone stand, _plus_ there were absolutely _no_ doors on this ship to be found. Only sliding or automatic doors, which aren’t helpful to his urge at all. Instead, he rolled over, staring at the wall, angrily. “Shut up and just go away.” He muttered quietly.

Apparently, he muttered loud enough for the other to hear, because shortly after, he got up from his knees and hesitantly treaded from the room. As soon as the door slid closed, Mayfeld could feel more tears falling down his cheeks. He choked back a sob, not wanting the other to hear him.

Eventually, he cried himself to sleep, thoughts of his shiny caretaker filling his head.

+-------:(=<=>=):------+

When Migs woke up the next time, he noticed a small tray of food on the ground next to his bed. There was also a rag with a bottle of that sterilizing solution, presumably to use on his eye once again. When he looked around, he saw no sign of the Mandalorian, and he had no clue when he could’ve placed the tray down. It could’ve been minutes or hours ago. He had no idea how long he had been out.

He felt sick, like he almost always did, but he couldn’t deny that the food looked delicious. It wasn’t anything special, just some broth and two pieces of bread, but after tasting nothing for the duration of his stay with the empire, his mouth was watering enthusiastically.

He wanted to eat slowly, to savor the taste and texture of everything, but he was too impatient. Instead, he downed the broth in one go and ate each piece of bread in two bites. As he finished, he had a strong spike of nausea, and threw up everything he had just eaten. Apparently, his body wasn’t quite used to anything other than the nutrient infusion he’d gotten every few days.

He felt more tears coming on, just looking at the wasted food, but before he could do or think anything else, the door opened up, revealing the shiny Mandalorian once again. He approached slowly, hands up in a peaceful gesture, letting Migs know he meant no harm.

It pained Mando to see a once-confident man like Migs Mayfeld broken down to what he saw in front of him at that moment. He was hunched over, trembling violently, with the saddest expression filling his features. As soon as he saw the tears forming, he stepped in to help.

“Hey, Mayfeld, it’s ok. It’s no big deal at all. I travelled with a baby for a long time—throw-up is really nothing compared to what I've dealt with.” Mando said, grabbing a towel and cleaning up what he could. He saw Migs choking back his sobs, so he spoke again, “Really, Mayfeld, it’s completely fine. Just calm down, ok? How about I get some more food for you?”

Apparently, Mando said the wrong thing, because the dam broke, and Migs started bawling. “I… I’m sorry. I can't… I can't even eat anymore. I’ll just waste it all… all of your food, wasted… because of me.”

Mando cocked his head to the side, not expecting those words, “Mayfeld, I have plenty more food. Don’t even worry about that. It was only broth and bread. There is lots more where that came from. Do you want some more?”

Mayfeld shook his head, “No, I can't be trusted. I can't eat… my body won't let me.”

“That was probably just because you ate it too fast. That happens to everyone.” He paused for a moment, thinking about what he could do to help. “How about I help you eat? Would that make it better?”

Mayfeld looked up, mystified by the answer he got, “You want… to feed me?”

Mando shrugged, “If it would help you eat, then of course I want to help.”

Suddenly, Mayfeld let out a sarcastic laugh, “Just throw me off the ship, Mando. Just put me down already. There’s no way my life is worth all of this struggle for you.”

Behind his helmet, Mando gaped at the words. “Mayfeld, what the _hell_ did they do to you? What did they _say_ to you to make you think things like that?”

Mayfeld shrugged and lowered his head, “They just told the truth.”

The words were like a stab to the heart, and Mando couldn’t take it anymore. He leaned forward from where he was kneeling, and gathered Mayfeld in his arms. The other let out a gasp of shock, his body stiff and scared at first, as if he would flee at any moment. Finally, his body melted, and he slumped into Mando’s hold. He cried and cried, neither caring that he was getting blood and tears all over the Mandalorian’s cape.

Mando rubbed his hand along Mayfeld’s back, trying his best to soothe him. He shushed him and spoke, “Hey, whatever bullshit they fed you on that ship, I want you to forget it right now. You mean more than they will ever know.” he paused, “There aren’t many people that I would consider my friends, but you are definitely numbered among the few that I do.”

Mayfeld stopped his sobbing to look up at the other, who wiped away his tears with his gloved hand. “You… you really think of me as a friend, Mando?” he asked timidly.

Without hesitation, the Mandalorian spoke, “Of course you are my friend, Migs Mayfeld. Not many people have gone through the kinds of things you had to go through for me, and even fewer have ever seen my face. You’re still the first person to see my face and live.” He pauses to wipe more tears from the other’s cheeks, “Also, the name is Din Djarin. No need to call me Mando anymore.”

Migs rolled the name around in his head, and ultimately decided that he liked it. A lot.

He smiled up at his new friend, “Shucks _Din,_ you know how to make a man blush.”

Din rolled his eyes, “And apparently how to make him cry as well. Sorry I keep doing that, by the way, Mayfeld.”

Mayfeld shrugged, “It wasn’t you making me cry, I just had something in my eye is all.” he joked, slowly but surely starting to feel like himself again, the longer he spent around Din. “Also, if we are going by first names here, I think you deserve the right to call me Migs, if you wanted to, anyways.”

Din spoke, and Migs could hear the smile behind his voice. “Alright, Migs it is.” Then he stood up, “Now how about I go get some more food?”

Migs didn’t say anything, but he nodded at the other, letting him know that he was ok with trying again. Soon enough, the Mandalorian entered the room once again with two bowls of broth in his hands. He sat down next to the bed, holding one of the bowls in one hand and a spoon in the other.

“I figured we would start with the broth, and see if your stomach can handle liquids right now.” He said as he lifted a spoonful of broth up to Mayfeld’s lips. It took a lot of mental encouragement, but Migs finally opened his mouth and accepted the spoonful, nearly groaning at the wonderful taste.

As the other ate, Din wondered how long it had actually been since he’d eaten any real food. Knowing the empire, they would’ve given him just enough to keep him alive, not caring about taste, texture, or even whether it was rotten or not. Din had experienced firsthand how cruel the empire could be, and he knew, even just from observing the ex-con’s dramatic, unhealthy weight-loss, that there was no exception even for those who used to belong to the empire at one point.

Eventually, over a period of about ten minutes, the first bowl of broth was finished, and they had moved onto the second. Mayfeld was still hungry, so who was Din to deny him more broth? The more he could get him to eat, the better he would feel, and the faster he would heal. He needed the nutrients, badly.

As the other allowed Din to feed him, something swelled in the Mandalorian’s chest. He had never done something so… intimate before. Nobody, besides Grogu, had ever trusted him enough to feed them, and even then, feeding Grogu was _nothing_ like what he was doing now. When he thought about it, Mayfeld was essentially trusting Din to the point that he is allowing him to see him at his most vulnerable state—having to be cared for like a child.

It made Din’s heart flutter, knowing that the other trusted him that much.

Once the second bowl was emptied, Din took the bowls to the wash area, then returned with a flask of water. He helped Mayfeld drink it slowly, so that he didn’t make himself sick again. He left the flask with Mayfeld, in case he got thirsty, then left the room, telling the other to get some rest. He would need it if he was going to get his strength back.

As he walked to his own quarters, Din couldn’t help but smile to himself. Happy for what felt like the first time in ages as he drifted to sleep.

+-------:(=<=>=):------+

After the soup incident, Mayfeld and Din fell into a peaceful rhythm. Mayfeld would wake up, Din would come in, they would eat together, then Din would change his bandages and the two of them would talk for a while. Din wasn’t the chattiest company, but neither was Mayfeld at that point in time. Most of the time, they’d just spend companionable silence together, neither worried about filling the dead air.

It was comfortable, in the oddest of ways.

Mayfeld had always been one to ramble. He hated quiet almost as much as the thoughts that filled his mind when there were no other sounds to drown them out. Din, on the other hand, seemed like the exact opposite—like he preferred the quiet.

What a hell of a pair.

This particular day, the two of them were sitting in the room together, sipping their individual bowls of soup. Mayfeld finally trusted himself enough to eat on his own, now that he was gaining a little self-control with each day. They talked about anything and everything, including gratuitous conversations about the green baby, which Mayfeld learned was named Grogu, and the jedi. Mayfeld loved the way that Din’s whole countenance would shift every time he would talk about the little green guy.

He could tell how much he missed him. Mayfeld wanted so badly to comfort him, but he didn’t know how. He barely knew anything about the kid himself, only that he called him a pet, then dropped him.

Not exactly story-swapping material.

Migs wanted to forget everything that happened on the imperial ship, but no matter how hard he tried, he was constantly reminded of his suffering there. Whether it was the pain in his eye and arm, or the fact that everything he saw from his right eye was mechanical and HUD-like. He knew he needed to get past this. He needed to move on, whether for his sake or for his host’s sake, it needed to happen.

After a few minutes of quiet, Mayfeld decided to speak up after gathering enough courage, “Hey Din?”

The other looked up at him, the face of his helmet facing Mayfeld directly. “Yea?”

He paused for a moment, “I wanted to ask you something… about how you rescued me.”

He could see the Mandalorian’s shoulders stiffen, tense with apprehension. He answered coolly, “What do you want to know?”

Mayfeld tried to keep his voice even, despite the nervousness he felt, “How the hell did you find me?”

Din sighed, “I had been keeping tabs on you for a while. It wasn’t that I thought you’d become some reckless criminal or anything, but Marshal Dune asked me to keep an eye on you, in case you got out of line. She didn’t want that kind of trouble biting her in the ass after letting you go.”

He paused, gathering his thoughts, “After a while, I saw how you were just trying to stay afloat, getting a legit job and actually becoming a part of a community. I figured there was nothing for me to worry about anymore, so… I stopped paying such close attention.

“After a couple months, I realized that I hadn’t heard anything back about you. So, I dropped into the area to see how you were doing. I’ll admit, I feared the worst—that you had gone rogue and skipped town, catching onto how I had been tracking you.

“When I showed up in town, I asked the locals where you had been, and they told me about the troopers hauling you away months back. I went to your home and saw how all of your things were still there, and figured that you didn’t join up with them again… that something more sinister was going on.”

The Mandalorian hesitated, and Mayfeld could swear he heard his breath catch in his throat, “If I had been more vigilant, you wouldn’t have gone through what you did… I'm so sorry Migs.”

It finally clicked in the ex-imperial’s head as to why the other was blaming himself for Mayfeld’s torture those few days ago. It also started to register in his mind that Din had said ‘months’, not ‘weeks’, like he was expecting.

How long was he really gone?

Mayfeld lowered his head, not sure if he wanted to know the answer, “How… how long did they have me?”

The Mandalorian shuffled on his feet, “Judging from the time that I noticed your absence to when I got you out, you were in there for about 4 months.”

Mayfeld’s eyes bugged out of his head. _Four months??_ How had he survived that long under that brutal treatment? “That’s… wow. I had no idea.” He muttered, not knowing what else to say.

The other was silent for a while, letting Mayfeld process what he’d told him.

Mayfeld could feel more tears pressing against his eyes, but he wouldn’t let them fall. He refused to let the empire have any more power over him. Especially now that he was free of them. 

Finally, the beskar-clad warrior spoke timidly, catching Mayfeld’s attention once again, “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. But… what happened on that ship?”

Mayfeld hesitated to answer, not wanting to relive the things that he went through. However, he knew that he had to get it off his chest sooner or later. And in his experience, when it came to carrying unwanted weight, getting rid of it sooner was better. That way it couldn’t wear him down more than it already had.

“You really don’t have to answer, I’m sorry I even—”

Din started to speak, but was cut off by the other. “No, it’s ok. I want to.” He closed his eyes, willing away the tears that threatened to gather, “They found me because I stayed in one place for too long. The empire might not be officially back, but that doesn’t mean they don’t have hands and eyes everywhere you turn. Their reach is impressive, and inescapable. My face was easy to recognize, and they wanted revenge after what I did at the refinery.

“The first few weeks, they just starved and beat me to near-death, then pulled me back to health each time I didn’t wake up right away. Didn’t quite want me dead yet, I guess. After that is when the experimentation started. They had me on record as a sharpshooter, so they wanted to test some new bioengineering medical procedures that would enhance my efficiency even further. If the procedures killed me, it would be no skin off of their noses, since I was already dead according to official records.”

He paused, looking to Din, who now had his arms folded tightly against his chest. It almost looked like he was hugging himself. Mayfeld wondered if the Mandalorian would’ve hugged him half as tightly.

He reigned his thoughts back in, “They ripped my eye out, severing the optic nerve and replacing it, and part of my occipital lobe, with wire and mechanical processing equipment. My body rejected the prosthetic at first, and I almost died of sepsis and shock after they would work on adding new components.

“After that experiment was finished, they started on my arm. They figured the only way to make a sharpshooter like myself more efficient is to _become_ the weapon. So, now I can control this,” he powered the gun in his arm up, the barrel protruding from his wrist joint, “with my eye.”

He looked at the ground, not wanting to face the cold, hard face of the Mandalorian’s helmet. He waited for the other to say something, but he never did, so he spoke instead, “I know what you’re thinking—that I’m a monster now. That you don’t even know where my flesh begins and the machine ends. Well, neither do I. I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

Din cocked his head, “I wasn’t thinking anything like that. You aren’t a monster for something you had no control over happening to you.”

Mayfeld huffed, “I’m literally a killing machine—part droid, part psychopath. If I remember correctly, you hate droids with every fiber of your being, so don’t even try to defend me.”

Din shook his head, “That was before, my opinion has changed. I learned from a dear friend that droids are not good or bad, they are just a reflection of their programming.” Mayfeld looked at the other, mystified by his new philosophy. Din continued, “Besides, comparing you to a droid is like comparing _me_ to a droid. In fact, I might be more droid-like than you, even with your cybernetic additions. At least you know how to connect with people, and express your thoughts and emotions so freely. I wear a mask—a façade of calm at all times, even when I want so desperately to be expressive and relatable like you.”

As he finished his thoughts, he sat down on the bed next to Mayfeld, elbows resting on his knees. Mayfeld blinked in awe at the gentle, thoughtful, and emotional words the other just hurled at him.

Did he really think so little of himself? Did he really think so highly of Mayfeld?

“Damn.”

It was all he could say, since it was the only coherent thought he could pluck from his jumbled brain.

+-------:(=<=>=):------+

After a while, they fell back into their normal banter, where Mayfeld was sarcastic and Din was stoic, only lightening up when he talked about Grogu, or occasionally some stories that Cara had told him about cleaning up Nevarro.

After hearing _those_ stories, Mayfeld felt luckier than ever that she had just let him go after that day on Morak. He definitely did _not_ want to fight her anytime soon.

It had been about a week since Mayfeld had woken up after being rescued, and supplies were starting to get low. It wasn’t that Din didn’t have the essentials, or that he didn’t have emergency supplies, but both of them were getting a little sick of broth and bread, and touching down somewhere to get off the ship and stretch their legs seemed like a great idea to both of them.

So, they set off to the nearest settled planet, which just so happened to be Batuu. They figured it would be a decent place to stop, since nobody would be likely to recognize them, and people would mind their business.

Hopefully.

As they landed, Mayfeld started preparing to leave the ship, tugging on his boots with what little strength he could muster. Before he could stand to put his jacket on, the other walked in and paused in the doorway.

“Mayfeld, what are you doing?”

Mayfeld shrugged, “I figured I was coming with you. Did you not want me to?”

Din sighed, “It’s not that I don’t want you to come, I just don’t want you to strain yourself, and the people on this planet are brutal. If we were to catch some heat, I'm afraid that I wouldn’t be able to keep you safe.” He paused, as Mayfeld lowered his head in disappointment. “Besides, I thought maybe you could watch the ship. If anyone can handle a shootout, it’s you.”

Mayfeld’s mouth quirked up in a small smile, happy that the other was at least slightly confident in him. Though, he couldn’t help but think that the Mandalorian just didn’t want to be seen with a freak like him. He would only draw attention and trouble, plus it wouldn’t do any good for the other’s reputation.

He didn’t blame him, really, but it still hurt.

“Ok Mando. You go on, I’ll stay here.” Mayfeld said, propping his elbows on his knees. “I can hold down the fort for a while. Just don’t get lost or nothing, ok?”

It wasn’t lost on the other how he had avoided saying his name, instead calling him ‘Mando’ like he used to. He hadn’t done that since learning Din’s real name. He could tell from that fact alone that the other was upset.

He knew he was making the right call, but it made him feel guilty all the same. He just wanted Mayfeld to be safe, and this was the only way he knew how to make sure he was. He really didn’t mind the company. Having Mayfeld with him had been… enjoyable, in a weird way. Din wanted nothing more than to take him along, even just to make him feel more relaxed in a foreign town, but he knew he couldn’t.

Not when the planet was infested with thieves, bandits, and criminals of all kinds, and Mayfeld could barely stand upright for extended periods of time.

Din gathered enough credits to pay for food and supplies, holstered a blaster in his belt, and made his way toward the door. He looked back before leaving, seeing Mayfeld still slumped over, clearly upset. He sighed internally, then spoke, “I shouldn’t be gone long, but if I'm not back before the sun sets, I want you to enable secure lockdown protocol. That way, nothing can get to you. If I'm still not back by morning, then take the shuttle and get the hell out of here.”

Mayfeld huffed, “I wouldn’t leave without you, no matter how long I had to wait. If that happens, then I’ll just have to come in after you.”

“No, you won't. Under no circumstance can you come into town, especially if I don’t make it back. This town is full of criminal scum that wouldn’t hesitate to kill you, if only to sell your inorganic _and_ organic parts on the black market. I can't let that happen to you. If you really feel that strongly about leaving me, then just send a message to Marshal Dune on Nevarro, tell her that I need help. Does that work for you?”

Mayfeld shrugged. At least now he knew why Din didn’t want him to come with him, “It’s better at least. Just be safe out there.”

Din turned to leave, but hesitated, turning to face the other once again, “Hey Mayfeld?” the other looked up at him, so he continued, “Please be safe out here too, ok? Right now, you are my only priority.”

The words made Mayfeld’s heart flutter, but he would never admit it. Never. The only answer he gave was a sarcastic salute, to which Mando shook his head, a fond smile under his helmet which Mayfeld couldn’t see.

+-------:(=<=>=):------+

After a few hours, the sun started to set, and Mayfeld started to get worried. What was taking the other so long? Maybe Din was right about this planet, and those warnings weren’t just unnecessary extra precautions after all.

It was when the sun had fully set and the planet had grown dark that Mayfeld started to panic. He did as Mando said and enabled secure lockdown, then sat at the console, debating whether or not he should send a message to Dune.

After about an hour of deliberation, he decided that he needed to do it, no matter how badly he didn’t want to communicate with her in any way. He pressed record, and started his message:

“Hey Marshal, this is Migs Mayfeld, that dead guy you saw a while back. I’m on Mando’s ship right now, on the planet Batuu, and I’m starting to panic. He left a while back to get fresh supplies from town, and hasn’t come back for about 5 hours now. He said if he wasn’t back before dark to lock the shuttle down and call you in the morning. It’s not morning yet, but I just got so worried. I can't go out and look for him, as per his own orders, so I didn’t know what else to do. I don’t know what happened to him, and I just… I just want him to be ok. I know you and I haven’t really gotten along in the past, but now I'm begging you for help, for Din’s sake…” he paused, “Do this for him, if for nothing else. Mayfeld out.”

He finished the recording and sent it, hoping that she would respond sooner than later. He paced around the ship for another hour before he heard faint thumping outside the ship.

He dropped to his knees, panic starting to overtake him. He got on his hands and knees, and crawled over to the side window to take a peek outside. Had someone from the empire found him? Was it someone from town? He slowly looked out, the thudding of his heartbeat in his ears deafening.

What he saw nearly made him faint.

There, barely standing upright and clutching his side tightly, was none other than Din Djarin.

Mayfeld had seen his fair share of wounds before, and he knew that for someone like Mando to be clutching his side so tightly, it had to be bad. He quickly flew to his feet, fumbling for the door controls.

“Din!” he yelled as the door opened, and he exited the craft, making his way over to the unsteady Mandalorian. He draped one of his arms around his shoulders and with all the strength he could muster, he helped the other back onto the ship.

When they got inside, Mayfeld couldn’t hold him for much longer, so he set him down, kneeling next to him. “Din, what the hell happened?! Where are you hurt?”

Din let out a choked groan and pulled a satchel forward, showing it to Mayfeld. “I… I got some groceries.”

Mayfeld wanted so badly to laugh, cry, and punch this absolute moron at the same time.

“I don’t care about the groceries you idiot, just tell me where you got hurt!” he responded, his hands gently gliding over the other’s abdomen, trying to find the source of the problem.

“I think they got my right side and the right side of my neck, but that’s all. I did get thrown around quite a bit though.”

Mayfeld rolled his eyes as he started to remove the armor from the Mandalorian, “Oh, ‘that’s all’, he says. ‘Just a side and neck wound, that’s all’. Kriffing idiot.” he mumbled sarcastically under his breath.

He heard a faint chuckle come from the other, “It’s really not so bad. I just need some bacta and some bandages.”

Mayfeld stood to retrieve said items, then returned with a small container of bacta salve along with some fresh gauze and medical tape. “Seriously Din, what happened? How did you get these injuries?”

Din sighed, “They wanted the beskar. There was pretty much a small army that caught me leaving the food mart, and they played dirty. I should’ve seen it coming, but I was too focused on wanting to get out of there.”

Mayfeld paused, “So… you killed them all?”

“Huh? Oh, yea. They’re dead.” Din nodded.

Mayfeld nodded back, letting out an ‘ah, good’ as he continued removing layers from the other. It was only when he was preparing to remove the shirt that he realized how intimate this all was, and that he should probably ask permission before he essentially stripped him.

“Hey, I'm gonna need to remove all these layers if you want me to dress this wound. Is that ok?”

There was a moment of hesitation before the other responded, “Yea. Yea, that’s fine.”

Mayfeld slowly and carefully removed the outer binding and armor until Din was left in only his undershirt. He grabbed it from the bottom and pulled it upward until he could see the wound that had been troubling the Mandalorian. There, right under his ribs, was a shallow stab wound spanning about five inches across.

“Jesus Mando, what did they get you with? Did they hold the knife sideways or something?” Mayfeld asked, slowly smearing some bacta salve on the wound.

The Mandalorian laughed, “No, that one was a shovel. The tip was sharp enough to pierce through my clothes and skin, but luckily they didn’t get it in too far.”

“Hey, I wouldn’t celebrate that point too much, they still managed to get it about an inch in, which means that you’re gonna be healing for a while, even with the bacta. You’re just lucky they didn’t use a weapon that was easier to stab you with.” He finished dressing the wound, then continued searching for further wounds. “Where else did they get you?”

Din reached up and touched the side of his neck, pulling the cloth aside to reveal another gash. Luckily, this one was not nearly as deep. It looked more like someone just skimmed his neck rather than actually stabbed.

As he gently touched the area, he realized that he couldn’t do anything to help unless the other removed his helmet. He gingerly touched the bottom of the helmet, and Din froze. He made no move to stop him, but Mayfeld hesitated anyway, not wanting to make the other uncomfortable.

“I need to remove this too, is that ok?” The only response Mayfeld got was a brief nod after a few moments. “I promise I won't look at your face.”

Din chuffed a sarcastic laugh, “It’s fine. Not anything you haven’t seen before.”

Mayfeld gasped, “Hey, I told you I didn’t see anything! Besides, even if Migs Mayfeld _did_ see anything, that guy is dead, so you have nothing to worry about.”

Din’s head lolled backward, “Yea, ok.”

Mayfeld could hear the fondness in his voice, so he didn’t feel too bad about the situation. He couldn’t help the smile that rested on his face either, happy to have a sense of normal in such a frantic situation. Hell, he wasn’t even sure he would ever see the Mandalorian again just a little while ago.

And, he certainly never thought he would see those big, brown eyes again, even if he _did_ make it out.

After he lifted the helmet off of Din’s head, his breath caught in his throat, partly due to seeing that face again, and partly due to the blood running from his temple. Apparently, he had some head trauma that he forgot to mention. Or maybe he didn’t know about it. His eyes passed over the Din’s face, stopping once they landed on the other’s familiar feature.

“There they are.” Mayfeld couldn’t help but whisper. He had meant for that to stay in his head, but when the other quirked his brow at him, Mayfeld knew he had said it out loud.

“There ‘what’ are?” Din asked, clearly confused.

Mayfeld looked away as he answered. Partly because he needed to grab the bacta, but mostly because he knew he couldn’t handle holding his gaze for too long. “Those big brown eyes.”

Din’s eyes shifted downward as well, though when Mayfeld looked back up at him, he could see the slightest quirk in the corner of Din’s lips, almost like a smile.

Was he embarrassed?

Mayfeld went to work applying the bacta on Din’s neck, neither of them saying a word. After he finished placing the bandaging on Din’s neck, he moved onto the Mandalorian’s flushed face. He gathered some bacta on his thumb, then reached up to apply it to Din’s forehead.

As he touched the skin, Din let out a small, almost inaudible gasp, which made Mayfeld freeze. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, only slightly panicking.

Din gave a small shake of his head, “No, you didn’t hurt me.” Din blinked a few times, as if trying to understand his own reaction, “I just wasn’t expecting it to feel like that.”

That made Migs pause. “Wait, has nobody ever touched your face before?”

Din looked away once again, “This would be the second time. The first time, it was Grogu, and he touched my chin, not my forehead.”

Mayfeld was in shock. He was really letting someone like _Mayfeld_ be the first, beside his own kid, to touch him this intimately?

“Well, I hope I’m at least doing something right then, to get that reaction from you.” he said, going back to his administration of the bacta. Once he finished, he applied a small bandage, then paused, contemplating what to do next. He raised his hands and lightly caressed Din’s cheeks, who was looking at him with big, completely mystified eyes. “Do you want me to continue?”

Those doe eyes blinked rapidly a few times before he realized what the other was asking. Mayfeld could swear he saw a dusting of pink fill his cheeks as he nodded. That was all Mayfeld needed to continue his caresses.

Din smiled slightly as he closed his eyes. Mayfeld could tell he was savoring the feeling, and he wanted to savor this moment as well. He had never seen someone as calm as Din in that moment in his entire life. The way that the worry practically melted away with each swipe of his thumb, or stroke of his fingers. After a few minutes, Migs decided to be bold, and moved his thumb to trace along Din’s lips, knowing how sensitive they must be.

Din’s eyes flew open at the sensation, staring Mayfeld right in the eyes. Migs couldn’t stop his gaze from flicking back and forth between Din’s eyes and his lips, not sure what he wanted to admire first. He settled on the eyes, getting lost in the dark, almost black irises. Only when Din’s eyes flicked downward, toward Mayfeld’s own mouth did he start to notice the hammering in his chest.

Dank farrik, he wanted to kiss him so bad.

Before he could even consider leaning in, nor before he could notice the subtle forward lean from the other, there was a loud beep from the console, indicating an incoming message. When Din tried to stand, Migs stopped him, getting up himself and walking over to the console. When he saw the name, he cringed.

Cara Dune.

He knew he couldn’t just leave her thinking that Din was still missing, so he clicked on it, already terrified by what she was going to say.

“ _Migs Mayfeld, what the actual hell are you doing on Din’s ship? All this time that he’s been missing, he was with_ you? _What kind of mess did you get him into? I knew I should’ve never…”_ she trailed off, and the hologram of her showed that she was physically trying to calm herself down. “ _I received your message, and will be to Batuu in approximately half of a standard cycle with a small support team. Don’t you dare try to run, or I will hunt both of you down. Set up a beacon through this secure channel, and stay right where you are. Update me with any new developments. See you soon.”_

With that, the transmission ended, leaving Migs still cringing, and Din looking at him with a shocked, semi-panicked look on his face. Migs spoke first, “I'm sorry Din, I know you told me to wait until morning, but it was so late, and I started to get really worried about you. I just called her to let her know, just in case something happened. I'm really sorry, I didn’t know you’d been off the grid, or I never would’ve…”

He trailed off, and Din spoke before he continued, “No, that’s ok. I wasn’t off the grid per se, I just… I don’t want to… deal with things yet.”

Recognition flashed in Mayfeld’s eyes, “The great and powerful Din Djarin is running away from his responsibilities?” when the other didn’t meet his eyes, he huffed, “Man, it must be something really bad for you to feel that strongly about it. What the hell happened?”

Din sighed heavily, dropping his head, “I accidently became the ruler of Mandalore.”

There was a moment, just a single moment, where the whole world stopped. Migs’ eyes bugged out of his head and he stumbled backward a couple steps. There were very few times in his life where he had been rendered speechless, but this topped all of those other times.

“You _WHAT?_ ” he exclaimed, barely able to contain himself. He made several noises, intending to start several different sentences, but failing to pick which one first. He closed his eyes and clasped his hands in front of his face. Finally, after he calmed himself down a little, he continued “Please, enlighten me… how does one ‘accidently’ become the ruler of an entire planet?”

Once again, Din sighed, “I defeated Moff Gideon in battle, so now the dark saber, which is apparently the symbol of rulership on Mandalore, belongs to me.”

“Oh, is that all? You just took down a major imperial leader and became a king. That’s all.” Migs said, chuckling in disbelief.

Din looked up to meet Migs’ eyes, “I don’t want it though. I’ve exhausted every idea, but I'm not allowed to concede rulership in any way. The only way I can stop being ruler is if someone else defeats me in combat, but nobody will even try to challenge me.”

“Well, I hate to break it to you, but I don’t think anybody is dumb enough to challenge you. I know I’m not dumb enough to do that ever again, not after the way you laid me out on that prison ship.” Migs laughed, hoping to alleviate some of the tension in the room.

For the third time, the Mandalorian sighed, his gaze dropping once again. “I can't rule a planet that I've never had any ties to. I'm not fit to rule anyone, especially a group of warriors that think my clan was a group of religious zealots.” He paused, putting his face in his hands, “I don’t even know what it means to be Mandalorian anymore.”

Migs didn’t know what to say to that, and he especially didn’t know anything about ruling a planet, so he didn’t have any helpful input to speak up about. Instead, he walked over to where the other was still resting, and wrapped his arms around him. The other’s breath hitched as he was pulled into a tight hug. It wasn’t until a few moments later that he hugged back, burying his face in Migs’ shoulder. 

“Listen, Din, I don’t know shit about ruling a planet, but I definitely do know what it’s like, doing something that you don’t really want to, but are pressured to do it anyways. So, while I can't tell you how to govern a planet, I can offer my support. Whatever you need, whether you want to talk, fight, or just need a hug, I’m right here.” Migs said, putting his hand in Din’s hair and running his fingers through the dark curls.

After a few moments of silence, Din whispered an almost inaudible “Thank you” into Migs’ neck.

+-------:(=<=>=):------+

They had both sat down in silence after the hug, both of them sifting through their hordes of thoughts. Eventually, the bacta had worked enough that Din was able to stand, so he went into the cockpit and recorded a message for Cara. He talked about what had happened, and that he was ok now, so she didn’t have to come find him after all.

The two of them hoped that she wouldn’t show up, but they both knew better. As much as Din and Migs wanted to get going, they knew that they needed to rest for a bit longer, and also that if Cara showed up and they were gone, she really _would_ track them down and kill them.

So, they spent the day lounging in the main area of the ship, both still recovering from their ailments. Migs had been getting stronger and stronger every day, and feared that he wouldn’t be staying with the Mandalorian for much longer. As much as he wanted to stay, he knew it was inevitable that he would have to leave, probably sooner than later.

Though, he wouldn’t bring it up so long as Din hadn’t.

They chatted about what had happened on the day that he took down Gideon, Din telling him about Bo-Katan and the story behind the dark saber. How she wanted Gideon to surrender to her, so that she would be the ruler of Mandalore.

Migs stopped him in his tracks, “Wait, what makes this chick so worthy to rule? To me, it sounds like she is a manipulative, uncaring, cold person who only wants to help when there is something in it for her. Hell, now that I think about it, that sounds like _me_ , and we all know that I would make a terrible ruler.”

“Well, she was the previous owner of the dark saber before Gideon took it from her, and she was raised on Mandalore, which makes her more attune to the Mandalorian culture. Plus, she is already a leader amongst her clan, so she has experience in the role already.” Din said, shrugging his shoulders.

“So what? Just because she knows how to boss people around doesn’t mean that she’s a good leader. Besides, if I remember correctly, you were a rock-solid leader during the mission on Morak, _and_ you’re competent and capable to boot. If you ask me, the dark saber ended up in the right hands after all. You didn’t have to manipulate others to get it—you won it with your own skill, not having to tell everyone to stay away from Gideon so _you_ got all the reward and glory.”

Mayfeld paused, looking over at the contemplative face of the other, “I don’t know. I might not have any say in what makes a great Mandalorian, but I know what a good leader is—I've been serving under one person or another for practically my whole life. I know that at the root of every good leader is a good person, and that’s what you are. Plus, on Morak you got an ex-imperial, a shock trooper, an infamous bounty hunter, and a former crime syndicate assassin, and a Mandalorian to work together practically seamlessly. If anyone has the capability to unite people together, despite their differences, it’s you buddy.”

At that, Din looked up, locking eyes with Migs. He could see the deep appreciation and adoration that Din felt for him at that moment, and wanted nothing more than to take a picture so he could have that look with him forever. Migs wasn’t sure what his own expression was, but he had a feeling that it was almost an exact mirror of what Din was feeling.

When the tension in the room rose too much, Migs broke the silence, unable to take it anymore. “Besides, I’ve never seen someone give up as much as you have for a child that isn’t even your own blood. Hell, I've never seen someone give that much up for anyone, _period_. Maybe I had a rough upbringing, but people don’t normally give up their job, their ship, their home and everything in it, and even their way of life, no matter how much they love someone.”

The air grew heavy again, but Migs continued anyways, “I never apologized, for what happened back on Morak. If I hadn’t been such a coward, and just faced Valin Hess like we had planned, you would’ve never had to go through that emotional trauma either. So, I guess what I’m saying is… I'm really sorry. I saw firsthand how uncomfortable you were in that situation, and I would give anything to go back and change how that went.”

Din sighed, “I wouldn’t.”

That has Migs’s eyes snapping up at him, a look of shock on his face. “You wouldn’t? Why the hell not?”

The Mandalorian just shrugged, “If I had never taken my helmet off that day, I would’ve never been prepared to take my helmet off for Grogu the last time I saw him. I would’ve had so many more regrets than I already do. Plus, I wouldn’t have learned as much as I did about you while you were talking to Hess. I don’t think I would’ve gained the trust and respect for you that I have today.”

Migs’ heart fluttered again, “You trust and respect me?”

Din smiled, “Of course I do. If you hadn’t been there that day, who knows what would’ve happened to me. I couldn’t tell the guy my name, let alone made it through a conversation.” Din thought fondly on the memory for a moment before starting again, “By the way, I've been wanting to ask you for a while now,” he looked at the other, then continued when the other gestured that it was ok, “why ‘Brown Eyes’? Of all the names you could’ve chosen from, why that?”

This time, it was Migs’ turn to smile, “When I was trying to think of a name, all I could think about were your eyes, and how it was probably the first time in years that you looked into someone else’s without your helmet acting as a barrier.” He chuffed, “I was going to call you some generic name, but I literally couldn’t think of anything else. Sorry about that, by the way.”

Din chuckled, “And all this time, I thought it was because you didn’t want to give a real name in case someone knew the names of the troopers delivering that shipment, so you gave a generic nickname instead. I thought it was strategic genius after you said it.”

Migs laughed alongside him, “Damn, why didn’t I just say that was the reason? That makes me seem a _lot_ smarter!”

Their laughter died out, leaving a companionable silence between them. Finally, Migs spoke up, ever the one to break the silence. “You know, when I was being hauled away by imperial troopers, all I could think about were your eyes… how I might never see you again.”

Din looked at him, his face dark with sadness. Migs didn’t want him to be sad.

Never again.

“I know, crazy, huh? As I saw my life flash before my eyes, all I could think about was you. Not how I might escape, not how maybe I deserved it after all… no sir, it was just you. I think you are most of the reason why I lasted so long in there. Just wanting to be as resilient as you, I guess.” Migs said, meekly meeting the eyes of the other, scared to see what he might say about all this.

Din sat there for a moment, looks of confusion, sadness, and bewilderment flitting across his face. As he opened his mouth to speak, there was a loud noise outside, like that of a ship touching down. Din stood up quickly, walking over to the window. When he looked out, he was met with the sight of Cara stepping out of her ship with two new republic officers on her heels. Din ducked and grabbed his helmet, sighing heavily as he walked toward the shuttle’s door.

“Just stay here for now, ok? I’ll go and talk to her.” Din said, his voice sounding almost foreign through the helmet’s filter after not wearing it for so long.

Migs stood as well, “Are you sure? I should probably at least be out there with you to explain what happened from my end.”

Din tilted his head, “How about you hang back, then I can signal for you to come out once she is calmed down and ready to see you?”

Migs nodded, “Yea, that might be a better idea.”

The Mandalorian nodded back, then quickly left the ship, not wanting Cara to storm in first. Migs watched as he approached her, hands held up in surrender as she pointed accusingly at him. There was a heated discussion between the two of them, and Migs could just barely hear the basics of it. Something about Mando disappearing for months without telling anyone where he was going, and Mando telling her that he never told anyone to worry about him.

Whatever was being said out there, Migs was glad he didn’t have to be on the brunt end of it. Though, he couldn’t help but overhear some of the choice words that she was using toward him.

_“Is he seriously the reason why we haven’t seen you for so long? How badly has he corrupted you?”_

_“The only thing he will bring is trouble”_

_“Just get rid of him. You can't afford for him to drag you away from your responsibilities any longer”_

The words made Migs sad, but she really did have a point. Especially after learning that his travelling buddy was the new ruler of Mandalore, he knew that he wasn’t good for keeping Mando on the right track. The man had much, _much_ more important things to do than to take care of him and be his personal taxi service, he knew that.

Still, it made something stir inside him, hearing Din try to defend him.

_“Cara, you have no idea what he’s been through. He deserves more respect than you would ever understand”_

_“He’s really not a bad person. I've gotten to know that over the past couple weeks.”_

_“He saved my life yesterday. I will never be able to repay him for everything that he has done for me.”_

Migs knew he had to make the tough choice for him, seeing as Din wasn’t going to make it himself. Before this whole trip, Migs would’ve believed that Din was cold and uncaring, but now, he knew better. He knew that Din would never make him leave, no matter how inconvenient Migs had become.

He sighed to himself, then stepped off of the shuttle, walking toward the pair of them. As he approached, he could hear Cara talking.

“Din, you know I would never want to hurt you, but something has to happen. If you won't make the choice, then I can make it for you. I’ll take Mayfeld with me, then you can head back to Tatooine to deal with the new developments.”

Migs interrupted, “No, you don’t have to make the choice for him.” The two looked over at him, and he continued, “I can do that instead.” He looked right at the beskar-clad warrior, “I would never want to hold you back, Mando. Just drop me off on my home planet, and you’ll never have to see me again. I promise.”

Din shifts his stance and tilts his head, “Mayfeld, that’s not—”

“No, you don’t have to say anything. Marshal Dune here has a point—I'm just slowing you down. Now that you’re a leader, you need to be with your people, and you certainly don’t need to be wasting your time taking care of an ex-imperial criminal.” Migs interjected, then dropped his gaze to the ground, “I’ll just… go pack my things.” He said, then turned to get back on the ship. He knew that he didn’t have any things to pack, and he knew that Din knew it too, but he just couldn’t stand to be around them much longer. He needed to escape.

After Mayfeld left, Cara turned back toward the Mandalorian, in awe of what she just saw. “Ok, who the hell was that, and what did he do to Migs Mayfeld?”

Din snapped his gaze back toward her, “I told you, he’s a changed man. He hardly thinks of himself, and when he does, it is only thoughts of self-hatred. He’s been broken down to a shell of what he once was, and he’s just barely starting to get back his old ways. I can't just abandon him now.”

Cara just gaped at him for a moment, then blinked a few times before she responded, “I was mainly talking about the cybernetics, but yea, that too.” She folded her arms, “I had no idea it was like _that_ between you two.”

Din cocked his head to the side in confusion, “What do you mean? Like what?”

The marshal laughed, “Oh come on, don’t try to pretend there isn’t something going on between you two.” Din said nothing, so she continued, “Ok, I see how it is. You have feelings for him, but you haven’t told him yet, right?”

When Din remained silent, she shook her head in disbelief, “Nope. How bold of me to assume that you would’ve been in tune with your own feelings. Did you even realize you liked him before now?”

Din sputtered, “What? I don’t… _like_ him. I mean, I like him, but I don’t… not how you’re insinuating right now anyways. It’s just nice to have someone to travel with, now that Grogu’s gone. Especially when it’s someone like him, who can fill the silence _and_ who I know can have my back.”

Cara just shook her head again, “You can be a real idiot, you know that, right? Mayfeld too—you're both idiots.” She said as she turned to walk away, “It was good to see you again, and I'm glad you're ok. I don’t want to sound like a nagging parent or anything, but if you want to run around the galaxy with a boyfriend, at least let me know first, so I don’t panic when you are gone for months on end. Ok? And I wouldn’t mind if you brought him home from time to time either.” and with that, she walked away.

“He’s not—hey! I—he… it’s not like that!” Din yelled after her, to which she just waved her hand above her head in a dismissive manner. He sighed, then turned back to his own ship, trudging up the ramp unenthusiastically.

Once he made it back inside, Mayfeld was sitting on his bed, touching the mechanical parts on his forearm. The way he was touching it made Mando think that he was trying to understand it. Or possibly trying to figure out how to get rid of it. Din made his way inside the room, Migs looking up at him for only a moment before shifting his gaze to the floor, his arm forgotten for the moment.

Din sat down next to Migs, letting the tension build between them. After a few minutes, Din, for the first time, broke the silence. “You know, you don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

Migs nodded his head, “Yea, I figured you would say that.”

“You can stay as long as you want.” Din continued.

Migs huffed, “Yea, I figured you would say that too.”

Silence descended upon them once again, neither quite sure what they wanted to say first. Once the silence became too deafening, Mayfeld spoke up, “It’s fine, you know? I think we both knew when you picked me up, that this wouldn’t be a permanent arrangement between us. Eventually, we would have to move on with our lives. Especially you, since you have a planet to run and all that. I heard what Cara said, and she was right—I need to get out of your hair so you can handle things properly.”

Din sighed, “I know I’ve been avoiding my responsibilities. I have a new calling in my life that I don’t want to answer, but there are people counting on me. I have to answer that call sooner or later.” He paused, “My only wish is that I could have a companion with me to help along the way. Even if it is just someone to talk with, fight with, or get a hug from every once in a while.” He said, mirroring what Mayfeld had told him not that long ago.

Migs looked up, “But I heard the marshal say that you needed to get rid of me to go to Tatooine?”

Din hesitated for a moment, “No, that had nothing to do with me needing to get rid of you. She was talking about Boba Fett, and how he’s the new Hutt leader. She told me that he wanted to make some official alliances between them and the Mandalorians, since we are both political figureheads now. She was only saying that I couldn’t take you with me since Fett wasn’t in on the fact that you were pronounced dead in official records, and she was afraid that he would say something that might give you away. Though, I don’t think Fett hasn’t figured it out on his own already. I'm sure that if you came with me, he might even be happy to see you. Things will be fine. That is, if you wanted to stick around.”

Migs stayed silent for a moment, trying to process what was just said. “So… you _want_ me to stick around?”

Din slipped his helmet off of his head and sat it down, turning toward the other to face him fully on the bed. “Of course I want you around. I’ve never felt more at ease around anyone else in my life, besides the kid. And I certainly haven’t ever wanted to be so close to someone else in the way that I’ve wanted to get close to you.” he leaned forward slightly, “The question is, do _you_ want to stick around?”

Migs couldn’t stop himself as he pulled the other toward himself, locking their lips together in a soft kiss. Din let out a small squeal—a noise that Migs would _never_ forget—when he was taken off-guard. Eventually, the Mandalorian melted into the kiss as Migs caressed his face lightly, in all the ways he already knew the other liked.

When they ran out of breath, they pulled apart with a gasp. Din was blushing bright red from his cheeks to the tips of his ears, and Migs was smiling like an idiot. He kept his hands on both sides of Din’s face as he caressed his cheeks with his thumbs.

Migs looked into the other’s eyes and finally realized what that feeling was whenever he was around the Mandalorian. He would do anything for this man, and now that he had him, he would never let him go again. The ex-imperial rested his forehead against the other’s, wishing he could convey what he was feeling in that moment. He summed it up with one simple sentiment:

“I would follow you anywhere.”

**Author's Note:**

> That was unpleasant. I'm sorry you had to see that.


End file.
